A Pain in the Proverbial
by Mosteyn
Summary: Its New Year, 1933 and all those Christmases and family holidays at Downton are finally taking their toll on Tom - a secret santa fic for wslowry !


_A/N Here is my contribution to the 2015 S/T secret santa, with a prompt from the wonderful **wslowry.** Itwas quite specific - kidney stones - so I hope I have done it justice. Finished by the skin of my teeth, so happy christmas everyone !_

* * *

The beginning of January heralded the return to normal life for the Bransons after a long Christmas holiday at Downton. By eight o'clock in the morning, Sybil had seen their two daughters off to catch the tram to the Manchester High School for Girls. This particular morning, Tom was struggling into his ancient overcoat when he suddenly stopped and shifted his weight onto one foot. With his arms still spread out wide and the sleeves hanging over his hands, he looked like a rather well dressed scarecrow. Sybil could see his face in the mirror, grimacing.

"Darling ? Are you alright ?"

"It's fine," he grumbled. "I'm just a bit stiff this morning. Must have slept funny."

"That's been happening a lot recently." Sybil frowned as her hand came up to hover over his back. "Where does it hurt ?"

"It's nothing," he said rather tersely as he shrugged into the rest of his coat. "Now I've got to get to work. What time are you back from the hospital tonight ?"

But she had gone into nurse mode.

"I wish you'd let me look at it. Your back was playing up at Downton."

"It's those soft mattresses - and I'm fine."

"Tom -"

"Look, there's nothing wrong with me ! And I'm going to miss my tram at this rate," he muttered picking up his hat. He could see her face in the mirror, the little crease between her eyebrows deepening with hurt and regretted snapping at her almost immediately.

"I'll see you when you get home, love," he said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "But I have to go..."

Sybil watched him hurry off down the road, his battered old leather satchel in hand and sighed. She wasn't quite sure how long his back had been playing him up, but the extended family holiday at Downton over Christmas and New Year and given her the opportunity to notice a few things that got lost in the bustle of family life. Like how much her children had grown in the last year and how grown up they'd seemed at the Servant's ball - and how fond her husband was of Mrs Mason's cooking. She also noticed how often Tom would wriggle uncomfortably in his seat at dinner and rub his flank. He'd dismissed it as nothing when she'd brought it up the first time, but she kept him discretely under observation. And sure enough, in between the good humour, the dancing and the late nights, the signs were there that his back was hurting him. But she knew that tackling him again on the subject was not a good idea and would only lead to an argument. She loved her husband dearly, but his stubbornness on certain matters was something that had never ceased to irritate her. Thankfully, she'd learnt how to deal with it over the years - not head on, as she had done early in her marriage, but softly and patiently until she could catch him unawares. It seemed as if she wasn't quite there yet. As he disappeared around the corner of the street, a vague feeling of unease settled over her. This had been going on far too long for her liking.

* * *

By the time he had reached his office, the pain in his back had receded to a dull ache. Things were still quiet after Christmas and he was a little put out to find there were no major crises for him to sort out after his extended Christmas holiday. So after reviewing the dispatches from Westminster and catching up with his correspondence, he decided to take the rare opportunity to go home early. Sybil would have left for the hospital, but he could surprise the girls by being there when they got back from school. He was still feeling guilty at snapping at Sybil earlier, so he stopped off at Paulden's to buy her something from their confectionary department. The tram was half empty, only a few women in smart coats who'd obviously been on an excursion to town for lunch and a little shopping. He was feeling unaccountably tired - the effect of Downton's late nights, he supposed, finally catching up with him. He would be 44 this year - a man in his prime, many would say, but the seemingly endless energy of youth had long since departed, sapped by sleepless nights with screaming children and long nights working on late editions at the newspaper offices. Often now Sybil would come to bed to find him dozing off over a book. She, on the other hand, still had enough energy to be on her feet all day on the ward and keep up with the children. And then there was this damn ache in his side - it was wearing him down, whatever he'd told her earlier.

The house was silent when he got home - Doris, their long suffering housemaid, must have finished for the day. He almost felt as if he was an intruder - as if the house were simply waiting for its real family to return. He rarely, if ever, was alone in the house. Sybil occasionally had the house to herself, like today. He knew she appreciated it; a few hours to catch up on things with Doris or to simply sit with a book in the small room at the back of the house that they laughingly called their 'library'. He went to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. He was standing by the sink, looking out of the window into the garden when it happened.

His first thought was that someone had inserted a hot poker in his groin and was prodding it about. A sharp, hot pulsing pain spread upwards towards his stomach. It made him gasp and double over, grabbing the side of the sink for support. This was followed by a wave of nausea so strong he thought he was going to wretch, and he clung on to the side of the sink, swaying slightly with his head hanging over, in case he was sick. The pain throbbed in a raw, steady rhythm and he could feel his skin go cold and clammy. It was as much as he could do to remember to breathe.

"Daddy ?"

He looked up. Niamh, his older daughter, was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, clutching her schoolbag to her chest, her eyes wide with alarm. He tried to smile.

"Hello, darling..."

She dropped her bag and ran round the table to him.

"Daddy, are you alright ? Shall I run and get Dr Brooke ?"

"No ! No, I'll be fine..." He grabbed the back of a chair and made himself sit down. "Its just a bit of ...indigestion."

She didn't look convinced.

"I think I should get the doctor. You look awful."

"No - don't ! I'll be alright. See," he said, straightening up a little, 'its easing off." And it was a bit, the violent throbbing receding to a familiar, dull ache.

Niamh didn't look convinced, looking ready to sprint off to the doctor's at any moment, but she obviously didn't want to leave him.

"Come here," he said, standing up and opening his arms to her. She responded, moving into his embrace rather gingerly as if she might hurt him, but then hugging him as hard as she could. He kissed the top of her head.

"Are you really all right ?" she mumbled into his stomach.

"Yes. I'm fine. I promise."

She looked up at him, his own wide eyes staring back at him, full of fear.

"You're not going to die, are you ?"

"No ! No, of course I'm not going to die. See, I'm feeling better already." He smiled at her, but she didn't look reassured. "But let's not tell Mummy about this, right ? She'd only worry."

Niamh looked ready to cry as she nodded her head. He pulled her in tight again for another fierce hug.

"Everything's going to be fine, darling. Now," he said, smiling shakily as he released her, "shall we have a cup of tea ? And where is your sister ?"

"Piano lesson."

"Ah yes. More money down the drain. I'll tell you what - we'll have some tea and then you go and do your homework and I'll see what Doris has left in the oven for us."

Niamh nodded and went to get two cups and saucers whilst he filled the kettle. He noticed her watching him out of the corner of his eye, unwilling to let him out of her sight. She probably thought he was going to drop dead in front of her after that scare. Wretchedness settled like a weight on his heart. Sybil would be livid with him if she knew what had happened. There was nothing for it. He would have to go to the doctor's tomorrow.

* * *

Sybil returned from the hospital to find the girls still up, waiting for her to get home. Aoife ran into the hallway as soon as she heard her mother's key in the log, only to throw her arms round her and give Sybil an extravagant hug. Niamh hung back by the door to the sitting room, her face solemn in the shadows. Immediately Sybil knew that something had upset her.

"Niamh, darling, are you alright ?"

Niamh nodded, and came and let her mother enfold her in her arms whilst her sister bounced over to their father and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Night night, Daddy !"

"Are you sure ?" Sybil asked, looking down at her daughter. "Are you tired ?"

"A bit." Niamh drooped out of her embrace and then went to give her father a fierce hug.

"Please don't die, Daddy," she whispered. "Please..."

Tom carefully tipped her face up to him and pushed her wild dark hair back off her cheek.

"It's all right, darling. Nothing's going to happen. Now go to bed."

He gave her a small hiss on her forehead and pushed her gently towards the stairs., acutely aware that Sybil had missed none of this.

"Goodnight. I'll see you in the morning"

"Goodnight, Daddy."

They watched as she trailed up the stairs and then Sybil let Tom lead her into the sitting room and pour her a whiskey.

"What was all that about ?"

Tom opened his mouth to brush it off, but then sighed. There was no point. Sybil would have it out of one or other of them either way..

"You know I've been having problems with my back ?"

She nodded, sipping her whiskey and tucking her legs underneath her on the sofa.

"Well - it got worse. Niamh was there. I think it scared her a bit."

Sybil put her drink down and sat up abruptly.

"Worse ? What do you mean, worse ?"

"Stabbing pains. Here, and..." he said, rubbing his groin and nodding vaguely at his trousers. "...my...my...wedding tackle. And I felt sick. But it eased off after a few minutes."

"Wedding tackle ?" She tried desperately to keep a straight face, but failed miserably as her mouth curved up into a smile.

"It's not funny !" he said crossly.

"No. You're right, it isn't. It's just I've never heard it referred to as that before." She was still smiling as she reached forward. "Let me have a look."

"No !" he hissed as he shuffled away from her.

"Tom - "

"I'm not dropping my trousers here !"

"Alright then, let's go upstairs."

She drained her glass and stood up, extending a hand to him, thinking that he looked like a rather prickly schoolboy. But nevertheless he, too, drained his glass and ignoring her hand, let her lead him upstairs.

Once in the safety of their bedroom, Sybil had switched to nurse mode and had him on the bed with his trousers round his ankles in no time. Her hand was no stranger to this part of his body, but the firm, cool pressure with which she examined him was anything but erotic. He felt a little disappointed that she was obviously able to find him completely resistible when she needed to. He was not sure he could have said the same.

"What do think it is ?" he asked.

"Well," she said, sitting up. "I can't feel any lumps, and there doesn't seem to be any sign of infection, which is good. You really need to see a doctor, darling.'

He shuffled back into his trousers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. She reached forward and began to rub his back tenderly.

"You've been ignoring this for too long. It's time to get it sorted out."

"What if they can't ?" he mumbled over his shoulder.

He felt her, warm and soft behind him as she put her arms around his shoulders and lay her cheek on the back of his neck.

"Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it and not before."

* * *

It was raining the following day. Tom sat in the waiting room, watching the cold, Manchester rain dribble down the windows, trying to push the anxiety he was starting to feel about yesterday's attack to the back of his mind. Despite, or possibly because of his wife being a nurse, he was very suspicious of doctors. Their family doctor was younger than he was by ten years. He disliked the idea of explaining his symptoms to this lean, athletic looking youngster, feeling like an old fuddy-duddy complaining of his advancing years. The doctor listened, examined him, asked about the pain and then asked a lot of what Tom considered to be rather odd questions about his diet, alcohol intake and work habits, making copious notes with a scratchy fountain pen whilst he did so.

"Well, Mr Branson - it sounds as if you have been abusing your digestion and now it is taking it's revenge," the doctor said finally, with all the smugness of someone who took regular runs and cold baths. "You've got a kidney stone."

"I beg your pardon ?"

"A kidney stone. The result of too much alcohol, irregular meals, not enough exercise..."

"Now hang on a minute..." Tom was indignant. "I hardly ever touch alcohol !"

"A whiskey every night, wine at dinner..."

"Only when we stay with my wife's parents ! They drink much more than I do !"

"That's as maybe. But the point is," Dr Brooke continued, "that _your_ constitution can't take it. Not when combined with the stress of your job. And this is the result. The pain you are feeling is the stone moving. Now the good news," he said as he leant back in his chair, "is that the problem will resolve itself. You just need to drink plenty of fluid over the next week or so and it will flush the stone out. By my estimation its already on your way to your bladder."

The news should have been reassuring, but somehow it wasn't.

"The next couple of weeks ? "

"It will be a painful process, I'm afraid. In fact I would suggest that you take the next couple of weeks off work. You're likely to be feeling off colour for a while yet."

"I can't just take two weeks off work !"

Dr Brooke just shrugged and seemed supremely uninterested as to whether Tom followed his advice or not. Tom sensed he was already losing interest, consigning him to the list of unhealthy middle aged men with similar uninteresting complaints that no doubt took up more of the doctor's time that he wanted.

"Well, its up to you. But it's going to be an uncomfortable couple of weeks. Get your wife to pick up some liver salts. Come back and see me if it hasn't worked in a fortnight."

* * *

The rain had set in by the time her left the surgery. Home was only a few streets away, but the water was running off the brim of his hat by the time he got home. At the sound of the door opening, Sybil bolted into the hall.

"How did you get on ?"

"He says I have a kidney stone,' he said as he wriggled out of his overcoat and hung it up.

"Oh, thank God for that !"

"It's nothing to be pleased about !"

She came towards him, arms open.

"I mean thank God its nothing worse." She burrowed herself into him. "I know they're not much fun, but they're not serious."

"No, but its bloody painful," he said, pulling her towards him.

"So what did he say ?"

"Plenty of fluids. And liver salts."

"I can pick some up from the hospital. I'll make you some tea. Might as well get started straight away !"

Sybil was as good as her word and returned that evening with a large tin of Andrew's Liver Salts. Tom found his evening nightcap replaced with a large glass of a clear, bubbling liquid that hissed and spluttered like a witch's brew. He eyed it with ill disguised disgust.

"What's this ?"

"What the doctor ordered. Drink up !"

It was disgusting, managing to taste simultaneously of chalk and something that had been left in the larder too long. He made a face, but his wife was unsympathetic.

"All of it."

Giving her an evil look, he drained the glass. It left a horrible taste in his mouth.

"Do I get a biscuit ?"

* * *

And so a pattern was established. She would stand over him to make sure he drank every last drop. When she was at the hospital, she had deputised both Doris and their children to make sure he was sticking to his regime. The girls were worse than their mother. They would sit opposite him at the kitchen table, as silent and unblinking as a pair of angels on a monument until the glass was completely empty. At some point later in the day, things would start to move and the hot poker returned as his body tried to move the stone along. Sybil swore this was a good sign, but he found it hard to believe her.

The whole process was exhausting, so in the end he was glad that he had reluctantly taken the doctor's advice and avoided the newsroom. He tried to work at home, but the pain niggled and left him unable to concentrate. Tom was not made for idleness. It made him crotchety. By the weekend, he was like a bear with a sore head. Sybil presented him with his morning dose of salts and he looked at her as if she were one of Macbeth's witches. There she was, this beautiful woman, the love of his life, his soulmate, the mother of his children, the person he liked best in the entire world - but at that precise moment he hated her with a passion.

"Go away and leave me alone !"

"Come on, Tom. Just this one glass..."

He recognised the voice she used to cajoule her patients into doing whatever it was she was asking of them. The fact that she was using it on him, _her husband,_ made him hate her even more.

"I'm not one of your patients !"

"Branson - just drink it !"

There it was - the voice that was used to issuing orders and that was used to being obeyed. Sybil might hide it very well, but they both knew she had been born to command an entire household. Getting one former chauffeur to finish his drink presented no problem at all.

"Yes, milady..." he said nastily. She watched him drain the glass with the same haughty stare he saw regularly on her elder sister, then snatched the glass from him before he had a chance to put it back on the table and disappeared into the kitchen.

Of course, as soon as she had gone to work, he regretted his behaviour. The pain had been getting worse the last couple of days and the nausea more frequent. The truth was, he was thoroughly miserable. The throbbing in his groin was stopping him from doing anything apart from feel sorry for himself.

He wandered through the house like an errant ghost, unable to settle anywhere. Finally, he ended up in their sitting room and tried to listen to the wireless, but found that he couldn't even concentrate on that. In the end he lay on the sofa and tried to go to sleep. But before could drift off, there was a ring on the doorbell and he could hear Matthew's voice speaking to Doris in the hall, followed by Doris opening the door of the sitting room to announce him.

"Hello, old chap ! Sybil said you're weren't feeling too bright. I needed to come over to Manchester anyway so she asked me if I would look in."

The sight of Matthew's pleasant smile was like a cool hand on a fevered brow. He immediately felt a great rush of love and tenderness towards his wife. How like Sybil to do this for him. And how like Matthew to agree to it. He wasn't sure whether Matthew's meeting in the city was real or not, but right now he didn't care. He just felt humbled by the love that these two people had shown him.

"How are you feeling ?"

Even though it was only a few weeks since they'd spent Christmas together, there was much to talk about. Matthew's children had returned to school, which would upset Mary far more than she was willing to admit. The estate's year was rolling inexorably on. Cora was in good health and seemed to be facing widowhood with renewed vigour. She was planning an extended trip to the south of France in the Spring, something that Mary didn't think was a good idea.

"Why ?" asked Tom, incredulous. "Surely that's a wonderful idea ?"

Matthew shook his head.

"I'm not sure. I have a feeling Mary thinks her mother will go off the rails out there."

"Off the rails ?"

"You know - parties, gambling, acquiring a dubious french lover half her age whose only after her money..."

Tom stared and his brother-in-law and they both burst out laughing.

"I can't imagine Lady Grantham doing any of those things ! She's far too sensible."

"She's the Dowager, Tom. Mary's Lady Grantham. And she keeps telling you to call her Cora."

"I keep forgetting..."

They were silent a moment, each with their own memories of their father-in-law, who had died suddenly two years ago.

"I still miss him, you know," said Matthew. "Sometimes something will come up about the estate, you know, something no-one's thought about for years, and there's no one to ask. One wonders how much has been lost with Robert."

"You might not believe it, but I miss him too," said Tom. "We may have fought in the early years, but he was good to me and my family in the end. Sybil misses him dreadfully."

Any further discussion was cut short by Doris coming in, bearing tea for Matthew and a fizzing glass for Tom.

"What's that ?" asked Matthew suspiciously.

"Liver salts. Apparently its supposed to help."

"Is it working ?"

"Sybil thinks so, but its not her b... I mean, she's not the one with the pain," he said.

Matthew winced in sympathy.

"Well, I hope it does work. Is there anything we can do ? Is there anything we can send you from the estate ?"

Tom was about to shake his head, when a thought struck him.

"Actually - there is something you can do for me..."

* * *

When she got home that evening, Sybil could see that the visit from Matthew had done him good as he greeted her with a smile for the first time in a week. He even apologised for being so grumpy earlier. In truth, she didn't mind that - she dealt with grumpy patients all day long - but she was glad to see that he was more like himself.

"I've got something to show you." Taking her hand he lead her into the kitchen where the first thing she saw was her two daughters admiring a huge bunch of white roses hastily stuffed in a vase. Sybil gasped.

"Wherever did you get these at this time of the year ?"

Tom could only manage to be contrite for so long before his natural self confidence reasserted itself. Especially when, as now, he was feeling rather pleased with himself.

"I asked Matthew to get them for me from that flower shop in Didsbury." Sybil's eyebrows shot up at this as she knew the place he meant. It catered to bankers and lesser aristocracy. "I know you love the white roses at Downton," he grinned, pulling his hands behind his back and settling his shoulders.

"Oh, they're beautiful !"

"And there's something else. Look."

He held out his hand to her, his palm flat. On it she could just see a very small, pale object, rather like a tiny piece of gravel.

"When ?" she asked looking up a him.

"After Matthew had gone."

"Daddy made a terrible fuss about it," piped up Aoife.

"Well, I'm not surprised ! It must have hurt," she said, turning to him again with a small frown.

"Ohhhh yes !"

"And now ?"

"Still a bit sore, but it feels better already."

"Does that mean you're better now ?" asked Niamh.

"Yes," Sybil answered for him, slipping her hands round his waist and smiling up at him. "You father is just fine."

And for that he had to kiss her, right there in front of the children.


End file.
